I’m still trying to understand how a Jewish woman can call her Palestinian neighbor a whore (sharmouta) (this now famous episode documented by B’Tselem, Israel’s principal source for information about human rights):
It’s a bit confusing, since she was in full possession of her faculties, was not provoked in any way, and acted under the watchful eyes of military authorities.
So I did a bit of scouting on Orthodox Jewish views about women, and stumbled across a videotaped Yahrzeit (funeral) address by the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Schneerson, on virtues of the Jewish woman (have a look here). The hall was full, even overflowing …. with men and boys. But not a woman in the crowd. I’m confused, since the rabbi’s address appears to honor an illustrious female member of the community.
No reason to be confused by concerns about gender equality or the absence of women from the funeral. No reason to be concerned, or as the rabbi says, “confused by Exile”, unable to distinguish darkness and light. No reason to be concerned about such trifling matters, when the women were busy at home fulfilling the three most fundamental mitzvot (obligations) of Jewish family life: lighting ritual candles, keeping the kitchen kosher, and maintaining family purity by producing future generations. And wearing skirts.
As far as this Reform Jewish woman is concerned, Jewish fundamentalists - male and female - are certainly entitled to live as they please. Judaism is, in my opinion, a pretty big space, one that can be filled by a very wide variety of theologies, philosophies, and approaches to practice. My concern is the way in which the ultra-Orthodox have come to define Judaism publicly, and how they treat (or rather mistreat) their non-fundamentalist neighbors, Jewish or not; Jerusalem’s ultra-Orthodox are notorious equal-opportunity aggressors, abusing non-Orthodox Jewish women on Jerusalem’s buses (watch here) and stoning Modern Orthodox drivers that pass by after sundown on Friday (NPR report here, and another here), as well as routinely terrorizing non-Jews in the occupied West Bank (B’Tselem report here). Even more problematic is how Jewish fundamentalism has infiltrated non-Orthodox philosophy and values, driving most current approaches to Zionism (the Magnes Zionist is a refreshing exception) and impeding reaching a just peace in Israel (such as described here regarding Gaza, or here regarding ultra-Orthodox militias preparing to fight Israeli military efforts to remove settlements).
So wIth all due respect to the rabbi, I maintain that I’m not confused. I know the difference between light and darkness, and right and wrong, and justice and injustice. Even if I do wear pants.
Wouldn’t it be better for all us — Palestinians and Israelis — to be in the mindset of Sinai rather than in the mindset of the Egyptian enslavement? (Jerry Haber, The Magnes Zionist, “Observing Passover When Still Enslaved“)
Genevieve Sideleau “Covered “, 2006 (Sweater Project Series I)
Making a knitted seder this year was more than simply producing copies of the common elements of the Passover seder, or re-producing tradition. It was also an opportunity for thinking through what makes a seder a seder, how tradition works, how religious traditions are made, and the relationship between family and religious tradition
My sister and I faithfully served recipes from our family’s archives: the Ashkenaz charoset recipe we’d grown up with, Aunt Zena’s sweet potato pudding, Nana’s Brisket, and so on. What surprise we created as we changed the the menu - that dense, spicy Yemenite date paste my sister presented years caused quite a stir), the year I started adding ginger and parsely to my matzoh balls forever changed our views on this staple of the Passover meal, and the year we stopped serving the favorite chocolate torte on account of cholesterol challenges practically brought tears to the eyes of some of us. My approach to the knitted seder was similarly open. (More photos of my “knitted seder” are available here).
The Exodus as a metaphor - and the extensive history of Passover observance - speak volumes to me about Jewish experience of living in the world, about a history of anti-Semitism, and Jewish response to it. This is the essential meaning of the holiday, as a creative response to the challenges of persecution since late antiquity. It was this meaning I tried to share with my family, and which I sought to explore, as I prepared for - and tikkunknitted - the holiday this year.
So at our second seder, we began to discuss revising our seder plate …
We discussed the origins and implications of Passover’s traditional symbols and traditions, and also the possibility of making new symbols and traditions. Like others, we added an orange and olives to the seder plate - the orange expresses the modern progressive Jewish approach to gender equality in Jewish life and ritual practice (observed by many Reform and Reconstructionist Jews), and the olives … to acknowledge the destruction of Palestinian olive trees by Israeli authorities (a business completely prohibited by Torah!), and the need to reach a just peace with this people displaced by the creation of the state of Israel. We also explored some of the problematic aspects of the narrative of the plagues, how the annual recitation of the Maggid may contribute to ethnic conflict and impede peace-building in the Jewish community.
Next year perhaps I’ll add a knitted beet to the plate, to acknowledge the sensitivities of the vegetarians at the table (Talmid is often cited in support of this alternative custom - see Pesachim 114bfor a discussion of the use of the beet or yam). At my sister’s seder, I’ll suggest adding a potato to the seder plate, to acknowledge Jewish loss during WWII, rather than using the copies of the Israel Haggadah brought by her in-laws (though there are enough copies to go around our (fortunately) large table). It’s and explicitly Zionist tract that makes me very uncomfortable, and the possibility of avoiding it might just be the stimulus to produce that Haggadah I’ve been promising my family for decades.
While I have no desire to reside in the real Jerusalem, perhaps these changes will create a seder space in which I’ll be comfortable toasting a final cup of Passover wine to “next year in the spiritual Jerusalem” that is possible if we allow ourselves to create the new symbols and traditions that might build the freedom that was the promise of Sinai described in the Exodus narrative, the peace within our community, and the peace with neighbors.
Passover study and preparation certainly has kept my tikkunknitting needles flying. Committed to Passover as a symbol of freedom for any and all of us, as an opportunity to gather, share traditions, and build hope for a peaceful future, my knitted seder table included the basics:
a plate full of the ritual symbols of the holiday, commemorating the narrative of the liberation of the Israelites from servitude in Egypt, and
a knitted cup for the prophet Elijah, whose anticipated arrival by Jews presages the achievement of an age of universal peace, was the tikkunknitting project of the moment.
But no seder is complete without the recitation of the Maggid (the Passover story), including its enumeration of the Ten Plagues, purportedly inflicted on the Egyptians for their Pharoah’s defiance of the Israelite God. As they appear in the Hebrew Bible, the plagues include:
Blood (Dam, Exodus 7:14-25): rivers and other water sources turned to blood killing all fish and other water life (Dam, Exodus 7:14-25)
Amphibians (Tsfardeia, Exodus 7:26-8:11): commonly believed to be frogs, but medieval Jews conceived of them as crocodiles (look here for an interesting discussion of Talmudic references, possibly explaining the illustration in the 14th-century “Sarajevo” Haggadah from Barcelona, bottom of folio)
Lice or gnats (Kinim, Exodus 8:12-15), like the dust of the earth
(Arov, Exodus 8:16-2 flies or beasts
Blight (Deverm Exodus 9:1-7) disease of livestock
Boils (Shkhin, Exodus 9:8-12)
Hailstorm (Barad, Exodus 9:13-35), hail mixed with fire
Locusts (Arbeh, Exodus 10:1-20)
Darkness (Choshech, Exodus 10:21-29), commonly understood to have inflicted the Egyptians alone
Death (Makat Bechorot, Exodus 11:1-12:36) of the first-born of all Egyptian families
My family typically involves the children in the telling, and this year I attempted to give them some tikkunknitted prompts for the job. Having put in a few late nights, I was able to contribute a complete story-telling basket for my niece-lets.
The task of researching and creating knitted representations of the plagues prompted a degree of study and learning well beyond my expectations. For instance, I learned more than a little about the life of frogs (the second plague) in ancient Egypt, and in modern Israel-Palestine. It should have come as no surprise that a plague of frogs appeared early in the purported contest between Pharoah and the Israelite god; frogs were an important symbol of fertility for the ancient Egyptians, represented by the frog-headed goddess Heqet(who breathed life into the unborn), the source of the hieroglyph for the number 100,000 (a multitude rivaling that of the Israelites placed in slavery, as Jewish tradition tells the story). (check out the Hieroglyph Translator!).
The plague of frogs is a particularly interesting example of religious irony, the Israelite god turning the table, so to speak, on the Egyptians - suffocating them with their own beliefs and traditions, rendering them lifeless with their own symbol of life. It’s also a means of connecting to modern experience of plagues … most notably, the plague of conflict in Israel-Palestine. Frogs have long been a part of the landscape of Israel-Palestine; indeed, fossilized tadpoles have been found in the Negev (source). Yet the symbiotic relationship between the life of frogs and the land is seriously threatened in modern times. According to the Jerusalem Biblical Zoo, habitat destruction, pollution, invasive species and disease have endangered six species of amphibians in Israel. And one specie, the Israel/Palestine Painted Frog, has been extinct since the 1950’s, when its Galilean lake habitat was drained to accomodate the expanding post-war Jewish population (see source; and the reconstructed images of the Painted Frog).
My knitted frog is inspired by the origami jumping frogs of my childhood. It is a creature of the water, being felted (or more properly, fulled) in a lengthy hot water bath. With a bit of knitterly “paint” she will be transformed into the amphibian lost to the unrestricted development of Israel-Palestine by Jewish immigrants since 1948. I’m hoping fiber artists and needle workers will respond to my invitation to contribute frogs to the TikkunTree, If enough to, there might be a plague of frogs to deal with.
A plague of peace frogs … what a thought.
Knitters will soon find a pattern for this origami-style felted frog available as part of the Patterns for Peacebuilders series. Additional images of my set of knitted plagues can be found here.
As I researched the iconographical tradition of Elijah’s Cup and the other Passover symbols, I was inspired to use this tikkunknitting project as the point of departure for a broader exploration of the ways in which holiday traditions and meanings are created (and to have another way to delight and teach my youngest niece-let at the seder table – it’s always a challenge to keep children attentive at the seder table, given the length of the service and meal).
Each year at seder one of the littlest members of our family asks “Why is this night different from all other nights? For years this was my job (in spite of being the oldest of the generation, I was the only one able to hold the tune, so I was recruited to “help” the younger children). This year, In addition to my usual contribution of freshly-ground horseradish (maror), gefilte fish, and chocolate-coconut macaroons, I answered my nieces’ traditional query with the results of my study and tikkunknitting — a seder plate full of knitted symbols and a tray of knitted matzo:
Maror (bitter herbs), representing the pain of slavery (I knitted the top of the horseradish root, which we use on our table)
Charoset, a sweet paste made from dried and/or fresh fruit, nuts and wine, signifying the clay or mortar used by the Israelites in their labor for the Egyptians
Karpas, another bitter vegetable (typically parsley or celery, as I knitted), the humility of servitude, which is dipped in salt water (slavery’s tears) before being eaten
a roasted Shankbone – the Pesach (sacrifice) before the 10th plague; and
a roasted Egg - a symbol of spring by Reform and Conservative Jews (or a symbol of mourning for the loss of the Temple in Jerusalem by traditional Jews
It’s been strangely liberating to work through the seder plate, item by item, the exhilaration of finishing one symbol and beginning the next … not quite meditative, but intensely reflective. What fibers related, by color, by character, by texture, by sensibility. Matzoh was instantly gratifying, as I anticipated the response to sheets of knitted “plarn” (plastic bag yarn). The distance required to produce my own set of symbols, translate each by the work of my needles, offers considerable space to sort out the old and new information I’ve been collecting and consider whether and how to build new symbols into our observance of the holiday.
It’s been a while since I’ve been able to celebrate Passover (Pesach) without discomfort. Initially, the challenge was trying to reconcile historical and archeological knowledge I’d been studying with my Hebrew school education and my life experience at the seder table. I was deeply troubled by the gap between the archeological record and the fictions of Jewish tradition — unfortunately, in spite of the considerable efforts of both Christian and Jewish biblical scholars and archeologists, little positive evidence exists to support one of the central narratives of Jewish identity: the Passover Maggid, the retelling of the Passover story of Israelite liberation from slavery from Egypt. My discomfort increased along with the harsh Israeli military occupation of Palestinian territories and continued (settler) abuse of Palestinian civilians.
This has been more than a slight predicament. Like most American Jewish children of the 1960’s, I’d seen Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments. So I knew about Moses and the burning bush, his threats to Pharoh to “let my people go” before each of the ten plagues was inflicted on the Egyptians to persuade them of the superior power of the Israelite god, and how the Israelites baked their bread before it had risen in their haste to leave Egypt. And I’d watched the Red Sea part to enable the Israelites’ escape, and then engulf the Egyptian army. I knew the Passover story backwards and forwards Memories of Passover seders during my childhood were among my most powerful and positive. Year after year I’d sat at the seder table with family and friends to retell the Exodus narrative and eat matzoh (“unleavened bread”), the holiday’s primary symbol (of the hasty departure from Egypt). So as with most of the non-fundamentalist Jewish community, Passover was one of my most significant connections to Jewish identity.
I grew up with the Reform community’s familar gray Union Haggadah, but my lifelong passion for Jewish history and book culture had led me to create a respectable collection of facsimiles of medieval, early modern and modern haggadahs. The internet enabled me to acquire copies of the Birds Head Haggadah (13th c.), the Golden Haggadah and Kauffman Haggadah (14th c.), the Rylands Haggadah, Sarajevo Haggadah and Ashkenazi Haggadah (15th c.), the Copenhagen Haggadah and copies of early modern printed haggadahs (17th & 18th centuries) and modern examples like Arthur Szyk’s post-war haggadah, Shalom of Safed’s folk art haggadah, and Leonard Baskin’s distinctively-illustrated version (many images here). My collected haggadot were precious threads of contact with a Jewish past; their visible signs of seders from the distant past - wine stains, drops of wax, soiled page corners - offered me powerful contact with the continuity of a tradition dating to the second century of the common era. (Contrary to popular misunderstanding, both Jewish and Christian, the formal, haggadah-directed seder post-dates the life of Jesus and destruction of the second Temple in Jerusalem).
Like other Jewish mothers, I’d carefully and lovingly prepared seders for my family and participated in seders with other families to insure transmission of Jewish identity to the children at table. I rehearsed the Four Questions with my sons, and prompted the children to tell The Story year after year. I began my own serious study of the archeology of the Exodus when my children were nearly grown, and was able to process the limited evidence in the context of more sophisticated conversations at the seder table. Texts such as Exodus: The Egyptian Evidence, ed. Frerichs, Lesko & Dever (1997) (a fine review here), and James K. Hoffmaier’s Israel in Egypt (1999) (available in preview here) offer the basics on the principal controversies involved in the debate - whether the Exodus happened, was there a substantial Israelite population in the region at the time, who built the pyramids, etc. (A similar controversy exists regarding the Dead Sea Scrolls (see Nathan Golb’s, Who Wrote the Dead Sea Scrolls (1996), which describes the scholarly and political suppression of evidence regarding the authorship of the scrolls).
For some, the implications of the absence of archeological evidence (NYTimes article, 4.3.07) prompted a crisis of faith and/or identity. Many responded with the traditional “mantra” that the “absence of evidence does not mean evidence of absence,” so the fact that archeologists have never found evidence of Israelite life in the Sinai does not mean they (we) were not there. Rabbi David Wolpe succinctly stated, and answered, the problem - at least for rabbis:
Not piety but timidity keeps many rabbis from expressing what they have long understood to be true. As a scholar who took me to task in print told me privately over lunch, “Of course what you say is true, but we should not say it publicly.” In other words, tell the truth, but not when too many people will be listening. [...] There are three primary reasons this is important to talk about: 1. A tradition cannot make an historical claim and then refuse to have it evaluated by history. [... ] 2. Truth should not frighten one whose faith is firm. [...] 3. Knowing the Exodus is not a literal historical accounting does not ultimately change our connection to each other or to God. … The Torah is not a book we turn to for historical accuracy, but rather for truth. The story of the Exodus lives in us
My concerns about the absence of evidence of the Exodus have to do neither with faith or identity - my Jewish identity comes from my relationship to a human community tradition of considerable duration, even if not as aged or well-documented as some would like to believe. No, my issues with Passover are entirely parental and political: how to tell the story of Passover responsibly, in a manner consistent with reality (and evidence) rather than community fiction, and how to teach my children to relate to the modern state of Israel in light of the evidence (after all, I ask them to use evidence carefully in all other aspects of their lives).
I cannot ignore the archeological record (or lack of it), and therefore I am unable ethically to make claims to territory on the other side of the world on the basis of such a narrative, even a treasured narrative. Israel’s 40+ year abuse of Palestinians (and its own indigineous Arabs) so challenges me that I redouble my effort to draw universal meaning from the traditions associated with Passover.
The Exodus as a metaphor - and the extensive history of Passover observance - speak volumes to me about Jewish experience of living in the world, about a history of anti-Semitism, and Jewish response to it. I can connect to Passover tradition as a creative response to the challenges of persecution since late antiquity. And it is this meaning I have tried to share with my family, and which I sought to explore as I prepared for the holiday this year.
So I’ve begun a rather ambitious new project, a (tikkun) “knitted seder” … As I researched the iconographical tradition of the familiar ritual symbols of the holiday, I was inspired to use this tikkunknitting project as the point of departure for a broader exploration of the ways in which holiday traditions and meanings are created.
I’ve begun with the tradition of Elijah’s Cup. With the continued conflict in Israel-Palestine, it seems appropriate to initiate a tikkunknitting project with Elijah’s Cup, the material expression of hope for an age of peace.
As Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks notes eloquently (source), Elijah is a complex figure in Jewish tradition, raising challenging questions about the role of criticism and nature of leadership. Describing the rituals of Elijah’s cup at seder, Rabbi Burton Vizotsky observed in his Pesach message to Americans for Peace Now, “Reject Hate, Embrace Hope, Recommit to Peace!,”
Traditionally, we fill this cup to welcome the Prophet Elijah, who heralds the start of the Messianic era. For centuries, we have recited Psalm 79:6-7: “Pour out Your wrath on the nations that do not know you and on the kingdoms that do not call upon Your name. They have devoured Jacob and made desolate his dwellings.”
In the Middle Ages, Jews invoked this fantasy of divine retribution as a poultice for the wounds inflicted during our long history. This bitterness was understandable, if unproductive. Now we live in a time that we are ostensibly free, yet the nations who actually invoke God’s name continue to desolate one another. God’s Holy Land is riven by terror and revenge. Jacob’s forbears, Isaac and Ishmael, remain gripped in the medieval mind-set. Despair makes us yearn for the arrival of Elijah.
We cannot bear to wait any longer. We cannot endure endless war. Elijah seems but a faint hope, not a solution. Tonight, we open the door to our neighbors, to dwelling with one another in quiet and shared delight. As we open the door we raise our fourth cup in a toast to the fresh breeze of renewed commitment, to the rejection of hate, to embracing hope, and to the hard work of making peace. And, we raise our glasses to life. We pray this “LeChaim,” will bring us the longed-for redemption. Let this be the way we welcome Elijah.
When my family opens the door at the end of seder this year, we will look hopefully to the virtual arrival of the prophet Elijah and the real fulfillment of the prophecy of peace - for all peoples, but with special hope for Jewish commitment to an end of the Israeli occupation of the occupied Palestinian territories and its concomittant abuse of Palestinian people, and end to the cycle of violenc, and the arrival of Jewish commitment to a just peace between Israel’s Jews and her many Arab neighbors.
More information about the pattern for this knitted Elijah’s cup will be available when it is added to my collection of knitted Judaica and Patterns for Peacebuilders to support co-existence and peace-building efforts taking place between Israeli Jews and Palestinians.
If you are silent at this time, help may come from another Place, but you and your father’s house will perish. (Esther 4:14)
On Wednesday March 19th I joined a small group of local members of Brit Tzedek v’Shalom (Jewish Alliance for Justice and Peace) at a recent public rally in support of Israel organized by the Jewish Federation of Greater Philadelphia following the murder of eight teenage yeshiva students in Jerusalem on March 13th. While I expected plenty of criticism of Israel’s opponents, I was astonished to hear many of the speeches by Federation representatives - in a public forum, with the city’s Mayor Nutter present - speeches which included frequent and pointed comparisons of Haman to contemporary Persian leaders, such as the comparison of “President Ahmadinejad to President Ahashverus” by Rabbi David Gutterman, executive director of VAAD: Board of Rabbis in Philadelphia (it is noteworthy that none of the reports in the Jewish press of the rally included descriptions of these religious references).
The public extension of these connections between Haman and Hitler to Arabs generally, Israel’s Arab neighbors, and even Israeli Palestinians, expressed a xenophobia, and specific Islamophobia, overwhelmed me, and set me to some serious study and thinking about the association between Purim and Jewish religio-political ideologies. I was heartened to find that others were thinking along the same lines.
Purim spiel
If you’re not Jewish, you just might not know about this “minor” holiday. Purim is based on the Book of Esther, which describes a Jewish Cinderella-Supergirl story: the wise Jew Mordecai offers his beautiful and modest niece Esther as a bride for the Persian king Ahashuerus (who is displeased with his beautiful but arrogant wife Vashti). Five years or so later, the Persian Jewish community is threatened by the evil Haman, who has influenced King Ahashuerus against the Jews, and casts lots (pur-im) to decide a date when the Jews will be killed. Queen Esther bravely breaks the rules and appears before the king - unbidden - to disclose her identity and plead for her people. Of course, she wins and saves the Jews … and Haman is executed. (Illustration: Marc Chagall’s “Esther”)
Tradition calls Jews to celebrate Purim by reading the Megillah (the “whole story”) aloud for the community, to “blot out” the name of Haman and his followers, and to give charity to the poor. For American Jews (most of whom are have an Ashkenazi, or European, background) Purim is the Jewish carnival or “Halloween” - children (and adults) gather in costumes representing the central characters of the story (or not - as in Purim in Shanghai, 1929; left; or costumed revellers in Jerusalem this year), re-tell the story as a “spiel” (silly story or play), punctuated frequently by the noisy din of groggers (noisemakers known to percussionists as ratchets) to drown out Haman’s name, and eat a few Hamentaschen(Haman’s hat) cookies.
For most Jewish adults, Purim is a rather benign affair - an opportunity for fundraising balls or carnivals, a chance to play games, gamble, and drink to excess (drinking until unable to distinguish between good/Mordecai and evil/Haman has long been a central mode of observance of the holiday), or it’s long been the occasion for fundraising parties or balls (Fancy Dress Ball, March 15, 1881, New York, in Library of Congress exhibition of 2006, From Haven to Home: 350 Years of Jewish Life in America).
Growing up in a community with few Jews, and having had limited contact with my family’s synagogue three towns away, the memory of the over-sized Hamentaschen my Nana brought each year on her weekly visit eclipses the traces of the handful of noisy Megillah readings and Hebrew school carnivals I attended. But I remember the first time I saw a picture of an illuminated Esther scroll (like the 18th c Italian scroll pictured at right, from the Library of Congress) - it stopped me in my tracks, and left me with a passion for illuminated Hebraica that persists to the present. As a young-er adult, Purim became an opportunity to review and expand my collected images of the Megillah, or to have a look at antique scrolls (such as the remarkable collection of megillot on display in the lobby of Philadelphia’s Congregation Rodeph Shalom).
Purim has taken on new meaning though, in part because my synagogue incorporated the local gay & lesbian congregation, Beth Ahava, after BA lost its lease a few years ago. This has meant we could share not just the extraordinary education and expertise of many BA members, but also BA’s annual Purimspiel drag show. I tentatively considered attending in costume — after my earliest years, costumes and Halloween were not a part of childhood - a drive-by shooting incident sent some trick-or-treaters to the hospital, and my parents joined others in keeping us children indoors. But making costumes for Halloween with my sons was a special activity in my own home (in spite of the pagan/Christian resonances of the holiday) - we had a “one cardboard box” goal, and the year one of the boys turned out as the Empire State Building, complete with a dangling King Kong, was a special one. Since contra-dancing has become a part of our lives, the annual Rum and Onions Halloween dance in Princeton has been a way to work my knitting into the event - I really enjoy spending a weekend or two at the end of summer devising and executing a knitted disguise. I already had knitted a lamé crown, black Nerfertiri wig (Hallowig pattern) and a Medusa’s snake headdress, and thought any of them would suit Vashti perfectly. A recently-discovered pattern for a dwarf’s helmet and beard could easily be modified to a turban-beard combo for Mordecai (or Haman), in case I could persuade any of my menfolk to join me.
But festive dress-up plans were set aside after the Federation rally, and prepared for Knit for Peace Day, which coincided with Purim this year. As usual, I tripped over a couple of historical and cultural surprises as my study progressed.
Gallows Humor: strange sounds and fruit
Thus the Jews smote all their enemies with the stroke of the sword, and slaughter, and destruction, and did what they would unto those that hated them. Book of Esther 9:5
The murder and mayhem part of the story - the Jews’ retaliatory execution of Haman, his ten sons, and slaughter of more than 75,000 other Persians (according to the text) - like Amelek and his people (Exodus 17:8-16; Deuteronomy 25:17) - this narrative of Jewish violence little known to most of us modern Jews, since we seldom read through the entire text in the course of the festivities. So I spent some time researching the historical Purim - not the historical veracity of the Book of Esther itself, for which there is no proof ; the Megillah is another example of “collective memory”, imagined story, but not history (the Magnes Zionist has provided a fine discussion). The history of Jewish observance is another matter - and I found myself - like many others - profoundly disturbed by the evidence of Jewish violence at the heart of it all, wishing that catcalls and groggers were the least of it.
Examples of contemporary groggers featured by Judaica Journal, though aesthetically-pleasing (even inspiring) obscure the ethnic hatred and ritual violence that undergirds the traditions associated with Haman. While children’s groggers “playfully” torture Haman with each spin, adults have been building connections between Haman, Hitler and modern Arabs … Hitler’s name appears alongside Haman’s on mid-20th-c. Israeli-made groggers (Hebrew inscription on the wooden grogger reads “Down with Hitler down with Haman“).
The iconography of Haman is explicitly violent - antique Jewish Books of Esther often featured Haman and his sons as the strange fruit of “Haman tree” (such as this 14th-c. example).
Christian bible illustrators of the 13th-15th centuries approached the text similarly, filling their leaves with images of Haman suspended from both crosses and gibbets (Christian associations of Jewish ritual violence against Haman as cover for celebration of violence against Jesus was a source of considerable anti-semitism from late antiquity on. According to Eliezar Segal (”The Purim-Shpiel and the Passion Play“), the Byzantine Emperor Theodosius prohibited Jews from burning an effigy of Haman on Purim, believing the custom to be a parody of the crucified Jesus).While the emperor’s belief may seem far-fetched, both Jewish and Christian records from the 12th century relate a Jewish community’s execution of Christian murderer after the criminal was paraded through town with a crown of thorns on head (in a transparent burlesque of Jesus’ crucifixion); the incident led to the martyrdom of the local Jewish community on order of the king.
Our more modern record is consistent with these reports, at least among the Sephardim. According to Israel Abrahams, The Book of Delight and Other Papers, Kessinger Press, at 135) …. purim plays were not commonly performed by Jews before the 18th c …. though many were written and performed by Christians (especially monks, who had a long tradition of mixing humor and morality at Easter time). So what were Sephardi Jews doing (besides making noise)? Crucifying, hanging and burning effigies of Haman (described in detail here, and in Erich Brauer’s The Jews of Kurdistan, 1993).
So I suppose it was only mildly surprising to learn that the tradition of ritual violence is sanctioned by Talmud. As described by the Ge’onim in Sanhedrin 64 (Babylonia, c. 500-1000 CE; Sanhedrin 64), Jews celebrated Purim by playing with a mashvarta de Puria — a ring (or stirrup) of Purim: “The young lads make an effigy of Haman and hang it from the roofs for four or five days. Then, on Purim, they make a bonfire and throw the effigy into it, and they dance around the fire and sing. They hang a ring over the fire, and they jump through the ring from one side of the fire to the other” (source).
The association between Haman and Hitler is clear in Arthur Szyk’s Haman Hanging on the Gallows (1950), where Haman’s black costume emblazoned with swastika (compare Szyk’s pre-war image of Haman, 1925), confirms the tenor of the speeches at the Federation rally. Similar comparisons are made in other media (such as The Wandering Jew blog). (There’s considerably more information available from Allan Nadler’s review ofHaman’s Swaying Power: Purim and the Image of the Gallows, by Elliott Horowitz). By now, the association between Haman and Hitler is well-established in contemporary Jewish thought. What’s less obvious is the racisim/bigotry/xenophobia that underlies equating Haman with the Arab world.
I confess that I am unable to see these images without also recalling images of hanged Jews in in concentration camps (image here), or hearing Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit” ringing in my ears, and the image of the lynching of black Americans that inspired the song.
But maybe that’s the point.
Somewhere along the line I learned other lessons from Judaism, lessons which provided the ethical lense through which I engage with the world. I learned about empathy and compassion, and the possibility of connecting to racial, religious and ethnic difference on the basis of shared humanity. I learned that the boundary between ethnic pride and protection, and ethnic chauvinism, is very, very narrow.
So when I try to put Purim into context, I have to include Baruch Goldstein’s Purim 1994 massacre of of nearly 50 Palestinians in their mosque in Hebron’s Tomb of the Patriarch, a shrine sacred to both Muslim and Jews (more information here, BBC film clip here). I have to remember that militant Orthodox Jewish settlers made a “shrine” of Goldstein’s grave, that this became a pilgrimage site for extremist Israelis, that they celebrated the anniversary of the massacre (BBC report here) dressed in Purim costumes and brandishing weapons, and that the shrine was only dismantled after a spate of litigation (BBC report here).
This context is my starting point for understanding Jerry Haber’s essay “Planning for a Purim Pogrom and Police Passivity,” which describes the organized Jewish mob assault on the Palestinian residents of Jerusalem’s Jabel Mukaber neighborhood days after murder of Mercaz Harav yeshiva students as a Purim pogrom (press reports here and here provide additional information). Since my family fled from Russian pogroms to the United States in the beginning of the 20th century, pogroms resonate for me (a pogrom in the Soviet Union in 1931, from the Jewish Women’s Archive).
The term is derived from the Russian word meaning “to wreak havoc” - a pogrom is an organized attack, often a massacre, against a minority group. Not surprisingly, Jewish sources emphasize Jewish experience of devastation. Thus, one source explains that Jews in Russian lands were periodically victimized by these persecutions, often with the tacit knowledge, or even active encouragement, of local officials (Jewish home attacked in Russia). According to the Holocaust Remembrance and Survivor’s Project, the term “pogrom” comes from the Russian word for “devastation,” and signifies “the destruction of Jewish life and property - through a thuggish or thug-like encounter of organized mob violence and vandalism - against Jewish individuals, shops, homes or businesses that were directly or indiretly supported by the government. Another sourceoffers “massacre, slaughter, act of organized destruction and violence,” and “organized persecution of an ethnic group. 20th century assaults on Jewish communities as example”.
Understandably, Jewish historical institutions endeavor to document the Jewish community’s experience of pogrom, of organized destruction of life and property by officially sanctioned mob violence and vandalism. But I am unable to find any reason why the terms shouldn’t be applied to Jewish-Israeli violence. I am sympathetic to Jerry Haber’s use of the term when Jewish mob violence against Palestinians is tolerated by Israeli officials.
The trouble is understanding how it is that observant Jews in Israel can commit such violence. I wonder about the legacy of Purim.
The visual record of violence against Jews contains examples dating back at least to the medieval era. Jews frequently cite the inculcation of anti-semitism in educational practices of Nazi Germany, citing examples such as Nazi schoolbook illustrations of the expulsion of Jewish children from school, and the celebration associated with expulsion of Jews from Germany.
What are Jewish children learning from their Purim lessons and celebration?
How is it that the children of ultra-Orthodox settlers learn to assault Palestinian passersby, including the elderly? Settler violence against Palestinian residents of the occupied West Bank - including unprovoked stonings and verbal abuse - is pervasive and well-documented.
How is it possible that religious Israeli Jews, who claim a right to Israel by virtue of the attempted genocide of European Jews in Nazi crematoria, can replicate the vitriole and racism with their Palestinian neighbors? (Graffiti from Jewish settlers in Hebron, viaChest Doc In Palestine).
Jewish settler violence against Palestinian residents of the occupied territories, , including unprovoked stonings of children, women, and the elderly is routinely routinely observed and reported.
How is it that we are not ashamed of public declarations by our civic and religious leaders, in an open city plaza, observed by pedestrians, print media and television cameras alike, that are overtly Islamophobic?
The space between these examples of hateful indoctrination is far too small for comfort.
Who is more Zionist?
I have trouble seeing the modern ultra-Orthodox posters inciting the violence against Palestinians in East Jerusalem after the death of the yeshiva students, and not recalling the familiarimages of anti-semitic propaganda posters in Nazi Germany (”Visualizing Otherness,” University of Minnesota Center for Holocaust & Genocide Studies, Histories and Narratives series).
I am similarly challenged by other images … especially the use of the Magen David (Star of David) in debates over Zionism within the Jewish community …
Hayim Shtayer’s 2005 poster warns of risk of war between brothers because of the evacuation of settlements in Gaza Strip. (Translation of the Hebrew: Who Is More Zionist?
Decent noise
Decent people are, by definition, those who condemn violence unequivocally. But is condemnation after the fact enough, or should we try and track down its source in order to pre-empt it? Rabbi Steve Golden
Perhaps it’s time to learn more about Jewish life in the modern Shushan that is Iran …. (from the Australian SBS current affairs show “Dateline”, Part 1 & Part 2)
Perhaps this opponent (left) of Israel’s military policies will be joined by more of the ultra-Orthodox community. Perhaps the model of these voices (right) joined in support of peace and justice will encourage the compassion necessary for the moral integrity of Israel and tolerance of diverse opinions withing the Jewish community at large.
Perhaps then I’ll be able to hear children singing Chag Purim (translation here), one of the first Hebrew songs I learned in synagogue, and not also hear - in my inner ear - the overtones of Billie Holiday’s lament, or a Jewish settler’s rabid abuse of her Palestinian neighbors, or the neighbor’s screams of distress.
nb. all images should be live - clicking on the image should take you to the original source.
Friday, March 21st was Knit for Peace Day, a relatively new event for a number of socially-concerned knitters (knittivists) around the world. Initiated by Randy/KnitforPeace, an American knitter living in Sweden, Knit for Peace Day is an opportunity to commit both the work of spirit and hands to the pursuit of peace. She found time to reflect on:
a lasting solution in Israel, where everyone can live in peace and dignity”;
religious freedom for Tibetans;
an end to the war in Iraq and an honest restructuring of the Iraqi; infrastructure;
an end to the misery in Darfur; and
understanding within my family for different views and different ways of doing things.
All of these found their way onto my list, along with a few others regarding local concerns as well, chief among which were wishes for the continued reduction in the number of homicides in my city, and care and reconciliation within the Democratic party (Clinton and Obama campaigns), so that eventual unity and electoral success can be achieved.
Friday was also the Jewish holiday of Purim, so my knitting time was also devoted to thinking creatively about the relationship between the Jewish holiday of Purim and peace (a few recent essays on Purim violence and traditions certainly stimulated me), and ways to promote the pursuit of peace in the American Jewish community. Much creativity will be needed in this endeavor, so I’ve been working on variations of “co-existence leaves” for the TikkunTree Project.
I also worked on a felted “Peacetaschen” Hamentaschen cookie. I’ll have more to add about Purim and the Peacetaschen shortly.
It’s especially gratifying to have knittivist colleagues in the virtual needlework community. I recently had the pleasure of stumbling into the sub-community of knitters for peace. There’s Ravelry’s “Knitting our way to Peace” group (moderated by Hanane of Knitting Our Way to Peace), which carries on a stimulating conversation about matters of religion and religious practices, peace, and ways to use our skills to promote peaceful thoughts and action. Another Ravelry member, Sophia, recently initiated the 198 Countries Peace Project, looking to join the flags of the 198 countries of the world; I’ve volunteered to make the Israel & Palestine Flags, which I plan to join - at the hip, like Siamese twins, which is how I see the two communities (if you are interested, you can read more here). I’ve already charted the pair of flags and the way I plan to unite them. I’ll be using Peace Fleece yarns (of course). (the project still needs volunteers for some of the countries, so join in!).
In addition, I’ve been fascinated by the range of ways in which activity of needlework has become a spiritual ritual for so many. Tallit (prayer shawls) are not a part of our family’s practice, but I’ve always been impressed by others’ beautiful examples. Ministers Janet Bristow and Victoria Galo have embarked on a prayer shawl ministry, and Wren Ross uses knitting as a special meditation ritual that creates a tactile prayer. Ross chose the seed stitch for her Seeds of Intention Scarf (see her book Changing Patterns)
because of the symbolic value of seeds. Lao Tzu said, ‘To see things in the seed, that is genius.’ Seeds promote growth. I wanted the stitches to be seeds for self-love and compassion with the reminder that gardens, knitting, and people take time to develop. We need to fertilize and water ourselves with patience, kindness, and insight and not expect results instantaneously.
I begin the ritual of making the Seeds of Intention Scarf by washing my hands. This is my transition from the daily grind of endless ‘must do lists’ to the sacred time of quiet reflection. Next, I light a candle to welcome inspiration. Then I take my [...] yarn from its embroidered bag, place a clean white cloth on my lap, and begin to knit. Slowly. Each stitch is a seed of intention for something I want or need. If I am feeling anxious, I may knit an affirmation such as: I am secure and connected to myself and others with compassion. If someone I know is ill, I wish that person good health through my stitches. I knit to support qualities in myself that I want to cultivate: kindness, hope, clarity, and love. This knitting meditation kept me balanced and centered during the entire writing process.
Though I’m somewhat uncomfortable with creating a special ritual for my own tikkunknitting. I’ve been thinking about the way in which my knitting can reflect my personal expression of tikkun olam. I share Ross’s interest in the symbolism of stitches, and have been thinking about patterns that might, beyond the work of the TikkunTree Project, express my commitment to a just peace in Israel. I envision Hebrew and Arabic prayers for peace across the boundaries of my knitting, or the flora and fauna of Israel-Palestine traversing hats, sweaters, and more. I’ve also been working with teenagers in my Reform synagogue’s Confirmation Academy (post-bnai mitzvah program), attempting to teach tikkunknitting - to help them make a network of connections between the work of their hands (the new knitting skills they are learning), heart (the impulse toward tikkun olam, to engage in repair of their world through social action), and heads (decisions about materials and people to knit for).
There’s more discussion about “Hands-On Spirituality” here.
Among the benefits of my middle age is the confidence of experience knitting since early childhood. This enables me to knit as I walk about my business in town. Depending on the project in hand, I am also able to knit and read. Thus, I have plenty of opportunity for tikkunknitting as I gather news - whether sitting by the radio, at the computer, or hard copy periodicals. Knitted cables have occupied me lately; they vigorously stake their claim on mittens, create undulating waves in a scarf, and gently wind their way around baby socks (more images here).
Unable to shake this current passion for cables, I’ve indulged myself completely, and learned that cables can also engage my ongoing interest in peace in the mid-east. How can a knitted cable possibly function symbolically, ethically or politically?
Well, I’ve managed to work cables into some TikkunTree project leaves - here, the two shades of a single color and intertwined stitches express well the necessity for sympathy between and progress towards co-existence between Israel’s Jews and Palestinians. Not terribly subtle, I know, but making these has stimulated both artistic creativity (I have visions of other “Siamese” knitted leaves employing twined or brioche techniques), and feels something like knitting prayers — working on each leaf is an opportunity to reflect on a variety of ways I can (and ought to) contribute to the peace process: through art, through conversation, through financial contributions, through political activism, through prayer.
For more information about the TikkunTree project, leaf patterns and a bit more discussion of the “politics” of these knitted leaves, try here.
Regardless of one’s position on the Israeli-Palestinian conflicts, all American Jews who support Israel should understand the affects of Israel’s continued occupation and/or blocade of Palestinian territories (the West Bank and Gaza) on Israeli society.
It is astonishing how many Americans do not realize that Israel does not claim - and has never claimed - sovereignty over the occupied territories since taking control of these areas in 1967. This is precisely why they are called “occupied” rather than Israel (except for the extreme fundamentalist Jews who continue to claim these territories as “Greater Israel”, or Judea and Samaria). So, Israel’s occupation of these Palestinian lands for the past 40 years is the longest military occupation in modern history - supported by the majority of American Jews, of all stripes (as well as our government).
While Americans are increasingly aware of the consequences of this occupation on the Palestinians (though more of us should make themselves aware of this), we seldom have the opportunity to consider how this extended military occupation has affected Israeli Jewish citizens — Fortunately, more than 500 Israeli Defense Force (IDF) veterans have joined together to communicate their experiences in a project called Shovrim Shtika/Breaking the Silence. Anyone concerned for the well-being of Israel and its citizens should take a few minutes to have a look at this exhibit of photos, interviews and testimonies of Israeli Defense Force veterans of the Palestinian occupied territories available in part online and currently making an American tour (Philadelphia, New York, and Boston).
What would happen if the moderate majorities in Israel and in Palestine demanded results from their leaders - if, with one voice, they called for ongoing, immediate, and uninterrupted negotiations toward a two state solution, to be reached on or before a given deadline - December 12, 2008? from, One Million Voices
What if moderate American Jews supported the moderate majorities in Israel and Palestine, and demanded results from their leaders - if, with one voice, they called for ongoing, immediate and uninterrupted support for ongoing, immediate, and uninterrupted negotiations toward either a one- or a two-state solution, to be reached on or before a short deadline, acceptable to the moderate Israeli and Palestinian majorities? What if.
To find out more about that moderate majority in Israel and Palestine, check out: One Million Voices.
Fortunately, there are a number of American Jewish groups attempting to support Israeli efforts to build peace with Palestinian citizens and neighbors, including Brit Tzedek v’Shalom.
What if we could break the silence? What if we could join the choir singing for peace?
In addition to joining this encouraging campaign, I’ll be trying to make my needles sing for peace shortly, by making a pair of fingerless mittens match the One Million Voices logo -
Anyone interested in “singing” along will find more information about this tikkunknitting project here.
The TikkunTree Project
is a community art project to increase conversation about peace in the mid-east. It encourages "knittivism", the use of craft and needlework of all kinds, as an expression of interest in peace and social justice, without regard to religious affiliation. If you are would like to get involved, please leave a comment here or on the TikkunTree website. We look forward to hearing from you!
to acknowledge the 
share traditions, and build hope for a peaceful future, my knitted seder table included the basics:
lifeless with their own symbol of life. It’s also a means of connecting to modern experience of plagues … most notably, the plague of conflict in Israel-Palestine. Frogs have long been a part of the landscape of Israel-Palestine; indeed, 
fossilized tadpoles have been found in the Negev (
My knitted frog is inspired by the 
This has been more than a slight predicament. 
re-tell the story as a “spiel” (silly story or play), punctuated frequently by the noisy din of 
a chance to play games, gamble, and drink to excess (drinking until unable to distinguish between good/Mordecai and evil/Haman has long been a central mode of observance of the holiday), or it’s long been the occasion for fundraising parties or balls (
I am similarly challenged by other images … especially the use of the Magen David (Star of David) in debates over Zionism within the Jewish community …
Tallit (prayer shawls) are not a part of our family’s practice, but I’ve always been impressed by others’ beautiful examples. Ministers Janet Bristow and Victoria Galo have embarked on a 
Thus, I have plenty of opportunity for tikkunknitting as I gather news - whether sitting by the radio, at the computer, or hard copy periodicals. Knitted cables have occupied me lately; they vigorously stake their claim on mittens, create undulating waves in a scarf, and gently wind their way around baby socks (more images 
Well, I’ve managed to work cables into some 
In addition to joining this encouraging campaign, I’ll be trying to make my needles sing for peace shortly, by making a pair of fingerless mittens match the One Million Voices logo -
